


Rhodium (Rh)

by annunziatina



Series: "Nobel" Metals (A Noah x Isobel Coda Series) [4]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Al-Anon Meeting, Angst, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-18 02:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18111482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annunziatina/pseuds/annunziatina
Summary: This takes place during Episode 105 (Don't Speak)Noah searches for Isobel, has a run-in with a town gossip, and attends an Al-Anon meeting before finding stashes of acetone all over the house.  By the time he confronts Isobel at Michael's Airstream, Noah thinks he sees his wife a little too clearly and not clearly at all.This one-shot can be read on its own. Or it can be read as Chapter 4 of the series.





	Rhodium (Rh)

**Author's Note:**

> Rhodium (Rh)  
> noun  
> Rhodium is a precious, silver-white metal, with a high reflectivity for light.  
> It is predominantly used as an alloying agent to harden Platinum.  
> It is frequently electroplated onto metal objects and polished to give permanent, attractive surfaces for jewelry and other decorative articles. The metal is also used to produce reflecting surfaces for optical instruments.
> 
> (Definition: Britannica)

“Isobel, please.” Noah grips the phone at his ear so tightly his knuckles ache. “Where are you?” 

His thumb knows the next steps by heart: end call, triple click volume up (just in case the ringer magically turned off), click the button to lock the screen, and tuck the phone into the pocket of his trousers. The entire dance takes a second, but in the space of that moment Noah has already found a new reason to pull the device back out. 

Pacing the street at the town’s center wasn’t doing much for his peace of mind, not when visiting each shop brought him further from finding Isobel instead of closer. Many of the stores hadn’t seen her in a month. Even the ladies Isobel claimed to have superficial friendships with were wary about admitting to seeing her.

“What do you mean, she was at the Wild Pony?” Noah asks when he finds gossip queen Sarah Lynn Flint at Magnolia Boutique. “She hates that bar.”

Sarah Lynn purses her lips and adjusts the purse strap at her shoulder. She’s intimidating in stature, taller than “My ex-husband has looser lips than I do, darlin’, but I will tell you this. If Sal says he saw your little Barbie doll at the Wild Pony, believe that she was there.” 

The woman’s acrylic nail jabs at Noah’s chest, pushing into a fading bruise and Noah clenches his jaw to keep his expression blank. The ache is dull and the details of that night rise to the surface of Noah’s mind. He remembers the word Isobel spoke before she pressed her mouth to his skin; he can hear his own hum of consent as her teeth grazed the tender flesh and her tongue laved at the mark left behind.

What had happened to his wife - the one who had called him “mine”? 

Try as he does to keep his expression neutral, Noah’s brows come together displaying his bewilderment and concern.

“It’s that Guerin she’s always with.” Sarah Lynn makes her complaints and Noah listens, but casting blame was a favorite pasttime of his alcoholic family members. He won’t let the blame slide in his household, not onto Michael. “Bad influence.”

“No, no, he’s-”

Sarah Lynn levels Noah with a look and he pauses to carefully consider what he will say next. 

He wants to stand up for Michael, to tell this Miss that Michael is a close friend of the family and a trustworthy man. He wants to tell her that Michael’s reputation isn’t his fault alone. But how can he tell her that, and still get the information he needs?

Instead, Noah asks, “Michael Guerin was with her?”

Sarah Lynn leans in to whisper but her airy voice is loud enough to be heart three clothing racks over. “Sal says Guerin scooped her off the floor. Poor thing fell of the bar stool, too drunk to sit!”

Noah’s blood runs cold. _Not my Is._ He’s seen her drink: wine with him at dinner, cocktails at parties. She never goes for the hard stuff and never takes any of it too far. 

His hand goes for his neck, but the tee shirt he wears is already flowing loose; nothing is strangling him but his own shock and disbelief. 

Noah needs out of the shop, anyway, away from the floral blouses and organza scarves. He needs air to breathe and wide spaces to scream. 

God he hasn’t stepped foot in Al-Anon for years, but he needs a meeting. If he doesn’t talk to someone else who’s been through this before, Noah thinks he might snap. 

The Methodist church in town boasts a meeting at Noon and Noah’s almost glad he missed it. Attending something in town would have embarrassed Isobel, would have stifled his voice. He needs to share and he needs to be candid and he needs to be anonymous.

The next meeting he can get to is in Caprock - a 45 minute stretch of highway nothing. The nothing is good. The nothing, the radio, and the desert give him plenty of time to think, too much time, perhaps. Then again, figuring out what to do next feels like the most important decision Noah has ever had to make. This is scarier than moving out of his chaotic household at eighteen. It’s more important than choosing law over social work. Confronting his wife regarding her possible addiction weighs heavier on him than choosing to put off talks of them having kids. Proposing an ultimatum to Isobel for the truth terrifies Noah more than the thought of proposing marriage to her ever had.

Noah parks outside the community center and approaches a pair of women congregating at the front steps. One leans on the railing, a cigarette hanging from her lips. The other stands a few feet away, huddled over her steaming drink, holding the small paper cup in both hands. 

The first woman extends a box of cigarettes and a lighter toward him as he steps close, but he waves away the offer. The second woman hums and jerks her chin at the double doors. “There’s coffee and danish. Room 103. We start at five after.”

“Thanks,” Noah says, and he realizes breakfast for himself, his wife, Max, and Michael are still sitting in the backseat of his truck. He hasn’t eaten anything all day; he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stomach a bite anyhow. “See you inside.” 

Finding room 103 is easy enough - second door on the left. There are ten chairs set up around a long table, refreshments are laid out on a smaller table by the door. Noah prepares himself a cup of coffee he doesn’t think he’ll drink, then sits and takes out his phone.

In his desperation, Noah dials the number he still has for Michael’s mobile - the one he’s had since helping him with a host of legal troubles that should have been sealed once he’d come of age. 

It rings twice before Noah loses his nerve and hangs up. If Isobel won’t pick up for him, what are the chances Michael will? Noah knows another rejection won’t do him any favors.

The meeting is small and once it gets going, Noah isn’t sure if he can find the words to share, after all. Then, the person to his right says, “I’d just like to listen today,” and Noah’s introducing himself as though he’s had some kind of speech prepared and waiting since he pulled onto 380 and headed east. 

“My name is Noah. There’s a strong history of alcoholism in my family. My grandfather lost his life to alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver; my mother still struggles with her fight for sobriety; and today I’m faced with the suspicion that my wife may have a problem. I don’t know if she’s an alcoholic. I don’t know.”

Noah stares into the murky cup of coffee between his hands. Steam rises in tendrils from its murky surface, but he feels no warmth from the cup. “I don’t know,” he admits again and it catches in his throat. “But there are signs. 

“There’s gossip about her in bars.” Squinting into his cup provides no answers or consolation, Noah looks up to the group, for the empathy he so desperately sought out. “She was so drunk she was falling off the bar stools, apparently. And she’s been sneaking out.” 

Noah stops himself. He wants honesty from his wife; he can be honest to strangers. It’s a different freedom, one he knows he needs right now. “No, she’s… You know, she’s not even sneaking. She leaves home with excuses that she has to help her family - and I want to believe her. I did believe her, at first, because she has a good heart.” Noah bites his lip to keep it from quivering. He nods to himself. “Cold hands and a warm heart.” 

The room nods in encouragement, but is otherwise quiet. 

Noah presses his fingertips to his mouth before he continues. “Then, I thought, ‘she’s cheating on me’. This was before any talk about her stumbling around the local bar in the middle of the day.” He rubs at his chin and lowers his gaze. “She’s really close with her best friend, you know? They’re really close.

“But I saw him with, uh, with _someone else_. On a date. Or maybe not a _date_ , but... He doesn’t look at my wife the way he looks at…” Noah raises his palm in presentation of thin air. 

“If she is-” Noah’s voice catches in his throat and he tugs at the collar of his shirt, stretching the cotton out of shape. “God, if she’s seeing someone else, it isn’t him.”

“Sounds like you wish it were, man,” comes a small voice from his right.

One of the hosts speaks up from across the table. “Now’s a time for sharing. If Noah would like some feedback there’ll be time for that later. Unless...”

“It’s okay,” Noah says. “They’re right.” The jaded half smile Noah offers his neighbor met with a pat on his arm. “She’d be safe with this guy, her friend.” Considering the alternative brings tears to Noah’s eyes and before he can dash them away, one falls. “But some stranger? And now booze?” Noah’s bouncing knees disturb the table; he crosses his arms to his chest to save the coffees from spilling over. “I won’t enable her like my parents did my grandfather. I won’t.”

Noah feels the eyes of everyone in the room on him.

“You got a plan, man?” 

“I gotta go home. Think this through.” Noah’s hand is at his throat again, rubbing the empty space where the collar of his dress shirt should be - the empty space where his tie should have been knotted by, should have him bound to, his wife. 

“She’s my solid ground. She was my anchor, you know? And she’s been slipping away; I don’t know for how long. I should have seen the signs, I just didn’t want to.”

The woman who had offered him a cigarette expels a stream of forced air. “I think many of us can relate to that.” 

Everyone nods in agreement.

Noah offers the room a nod in a return. “That’s all for me.” He clears his throat behind his fist and wipes his cheeks. “Thank you for listening.”

 

The house is empty, undisturbed, when Noah returns for the evening. He drops his keys in the catch-all bowl and passes his hand over the blown glass. The dust film on the fluted edge gives him pause. How long has it been since Isobel, self-made interior designer, wiped down the counters and home decor? 

Noah makes his way around the great room, looking for other signs of neglect. The kitchen has always been his responsibility, so he knows it’s in order. But there are small piles of hair and dust gathered in the corners of the bathrooms, the living room carpet is littered with crumbs, laundry has been left wet and musty in the washing machine. In the dryer are clothes too wrinkled to wear without a steam and iron.

Already in the laundry room, Noah starts on the wash first. He opens the cabinet above the machines for detergent and is surprised to find a line of acetone bottles beside the fabric softener. If they were all the same brand he could understand Isobel buying them in bulk or on sale. But the bottles are different colors and sizes, different types. 

_Different kinds of polish remover for different kinds of polish_ , Noah reasons.

When he moves on to the main bathroom, however, he finds a similar hoard. Tucked away behind the towels, bottles haphazardly lie about. It’s the same in the linen closet, and in the guest and master baths. 

It isn’t hard for Noah to think of other places to look: Isobel’s bedside table, the shoe boxes on the high shelves, her dresser drawers. Anywhere and everywhere Noah considers his wife’s personal space, Isobel knows is a ‘safe space’ to hide her addiction. There are even small bottles in her purses - addiction hidden in plain sight. 

 

Noah dumps bottle after bottle down the kitchen drain, disgusted by the sight and smell. Whatever cheap spirits she had filled them with burns his nose and lunges; he needs to turn his head from the sink. He coughs so hard he doubles over thinking he might be sick.

 

With a large bag of clothes in one fist and a paper bag of evidence in the other, Noah loads up his truck. He knows he’s not thinking straight, but he also knows this is what he needs to do. Without honesty, there’s no trust - and trust is what Noah and Isobel have based their entire relationship on. He’s trusted her with his heart and his physical safety. Asking for the truth isn’t beyond reason. 

Idling in the driveway before he leaves, Noah turns down the radio and takes out his phone. The lack of missed calls and messages is as infuriating as it is heartbreaking. He sends a text of desperation to Michael. **| Please, man. If Isobel is with you, I gotta know. |**

Noah doesn’t wait to be ignored; he cuts out of the driveway and tears down the road. At his speed, he is already halfway to the junkyard when he receives Michael’s reply. 

**| She’s here. |**

Noah pulls up to the Airstream where Isobel and Michael are sitting cozy around the fire. It doesn’t look like it crossed Isobel’s mind to let Noah know where she was or that she was okay.

Noah cuts the engine and hops out of his vehicle, fuming.

Wrapped in a blanket, wearing nothing else but a nightgown and white gym socks pulled up to her knees, Isobel tries to placate her husband with a smile. “Hi. I know this looks a little crazy.”

Noah's expression is hard as he takes in the sight of her. He passes the large paper bag from one hand to the other. Crossing in front of his body it acts like a barrier between them. He doesn’t want her any closer, can’t have her hands on him right now. 

If only this turned out to be a bad dream, then her attire would make the smallest bit of sense. Noah wishes he could wake up. “You always wear your nightgown to goat yoga?”

Isobel’s wide eyes are innocent and confused; Noah is exhausted by the lies. “What yoga?”

Michael gets up from his lawn chair beside the fire. “Um. I'm gonna. I'm going to go.”

Noah lets him; it’s Isobel who needs to speak for herself.

Before bringing up his newest discovery, Noah needs to know: “Is there someone else?” He feels like he has wondered this so many times, asked her in so many ways; if the answer is yes he doesn’t think he’ll be able to bear it. Still, he keeps his voice steady and his head held high.

Isobel’s voice is breaking, and if Noah hadn’t spent the whole drive over praying to a God he isn’t sure he believes in, his resolve would be breaking at the same rate. 

“No. No, my God.” Isobel's hand alights to her heart. “No, no. Listen, I can actually explain.”

To avoid the pleading look in Isobel’s eyes, to beg one last time for the truth, Noah dumps the contents of the paper bag into the dirt. Empty bottles and loose caps clatter to the ground. 

“Can you explain that?” Isobel’s gasp rings loud in Noah’s ears, but he goes on so she understand just how much he knows. “My grandfather used to hide his booze in old laundry detergent bottles. Is that what this is?”

Noah’s anger bubbles up and boils over. He’s never raised his voice to his wife in all their life together. Sure, they have had disagreements, but never has he felt so betrayed. He thinks he might lose his control. “They were hidden all over the house, Isobel.” 

When he meets Isobel’s wide eyes again, sees the pain in the tears caught on her lashes, the ache in his chest cries out for compassion. “I want to be here for you, but you have to come clean; you have to tell me the truth. That is the only way this can work.” Noah gestures between them to direct Isobel's attention to their strained relationship. She needs to see what is happening to them, what will happen if nothing changes.

Isobel stares, trembling and shaking her head - distraught but giving him nothing in return for the way he has poured out his heart. 

Noah stands in front of her, mouth hanging open. Shifting on his feet, he watches the life they’ve shared flash before his eyes. The soft moments, the wild ones, the talks and the quiet - the intimacy of it all swells to burst. He thinks of the secrets they’ve shared and the secrets they keep from each other. His voice drops as he tells her, “I can't do this, Isobel.”

Isobel’s shoulder rises and falls. “I can't tell you.” Her voice breaks as she speaks her husband’s name. “Noah, I'm sorry.” She takes a step toward him, looking despondent, but her apologies proved to be empty words long ago. “I'm sorry.”

“I thought you might say that.” Noah turns away before he says something he will regret. Leaning into the SUV to retrieve her luggage only takes a moment, but to Noah it feels too long. It gives his soul long enough to torture him with its pleas for reconsideration.

Isobel is close by, watching. Clutching the blanket around herself, her whimpering is clear over the crackle of the fire, “No. No.”

Noah can't even look her in the eyes until after he's said, “I just need some time.” 

If he looks, he might not leave without her. He might let this drag on, let this secret tear them apart even more. He hands her the bag and Isobel's whimpers turn to sobs. 

“Noah.”

For perhaps the first time ever, Noah doesn't look back when Isobel says his name.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)


End file.
